by Angela Ahn
KRISTA
KIM-BAP
ANGELA AHN
Second Story Press
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ahn, Angela, author
Krista Kim-Bap / Angela Ahn.
ISBN 978-1-77260-063-6 (softcover)
ISBN 978-1-77260-064-3 (e-book)
I. Title.
PS8601.H6K75 2018 jC813’.6 C2017-906503-3
Copyright © 2018 by Angela Ahn
Cover by Hyein Lee
Edited by Carolyn Jackson
Design by Ellie Sipila
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the
Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our
publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Published by
Second Story Press
20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, ON M5V 2M5
Second Story Press
For my kids
CHAPTER 1
First of all, I know that if you haven’t grown up eating it, kimchi can really smell funny. Sometimes when I go out of the house and then come back home, I can smell it in the air right away, even if we had it for dinner the night before. When you open a fridge with kimchi in it, the smell can sock you in the nose. But not in my house because my mom ties a plastic bag over the jar to seal in the smell. It totally works.
Grandma doesn’t tie up her kimchi jars in plastic, and when you open the refrigerator door at her house, there is no mistaking that smell. I think her milk even tastes a little bit like kimchi. Still, even though it smells like somebody made a huge mistake, I kind of love kimchi. My mom says it’s in the blood. If you can love a stinky food like kimchi it must be because you’re Korean.
My sister Tori wouldn’t be caught dead eating kimchi. She says she doesn’t want her breath to stink. I think she actually likes it. I remember her eating it when she was younger, but lately she’s become kind of funny about stuff like that. I’ve heard my mother grumbling about the “teenage years” when she’s talking about Tori.
When we’ve had kimchi for dinner and Tori’s friends are coming over, she runs around the house spraying air freshener. That’s only after she tries to convince us not to eat any with our dinner in the first place and fails. Then she changes all her clothes and brushes her teeth ferociously as if her life depended on having fresh breath, which is always pretty strange considering that kimchi never even passed her lips— she was just near it.
Sometimes, my best friend Jason asks my mom for kimchi and rice when she asks us if we want anything to eat, and he’s not even Korean! I’ve converted him over the years. When we were both in grade 3, my mom and I started by giving him tiny strips of kimchi, washing away all the spice. Eventually we moved up to unwashed big pieces. Now, a few years later, my mom says he eats kimchi like an honorary Korean boy.
Tori is very particular about not being very Korean in front of her friends. None of her friends are Korean. At her high school, there are only a few Korean kids and she makes a special effort not to be friendly to any of them, especially the exchange students who don’t speak English and wear too much clothing, even if it’s scorching hot outside. Most of them are new to Canada, but Tori and I were born in Vancouver, and for Tori that is difference enough.
Come to think of it, none of my friends are Korean either. I know some people who are half-this, half-that, and I always thought that it was a shame that no other Korean-Canadian kids lived nearby because it would be nice just to have a friend who you didn’t have to train to eat the foods you like. But that’s okay, I have Jason and he’s willing to learn.
“There are leftovers,” my mom told Jason as he rummaged through our fridge after school.
Jason looked at the glass container and removed the lid. “Yes! Bulgogi! May I?” he asked my mother.
My mom grinned. “Sure.” She placed the leftovers in the microwave and Jason went to the cutlery tray to get a spoon and chopsticks. It cracks me up that he likes to use chopsticks. Even my dad asks for a fork at a Korean restaurant.
It was Wednesday.Wednesday was our free day. Jason and I had a standing date after school. We always came to my house. Jason had two brothers, one sister, and two dogs. It was a bit crazy at his place. His mom worked for an airline and had weird shifts. His dad was the manager at the local organic grocery store, so he was home more regularly than Jason’s mom.
Jason and I learned what the word “ironic” meant in class last year and we both immediately thought of his family. We both think it’s pretty ironic that his dad works in a grocery store because whenever we go to his house, there is never anything to eat! Since I’m not even twelve yet, I don’t think it’s appropriate to fend for myself at my best friend’s house—that’s what parents are for.
The last time we went over there after school, we were both starving. Jason’s older brother was home, but he was not the kind of guy you asked for a snack. We looked in the refrigerator and all we could find were sauces, mustard, and mayonnaise. There was also some sour-smelling milk and moldy cheddar cheese. In the pantry, dried pasta and bran cereal. I think they order a lot of take-out for dinner. We figured the only thing to eat was the plain bran cereal and water. Jason kept apologizing. I mean it was okay, we didn’t die of starvation, but I wouldn’t willingly go back to his house for a bowl of bran cereal and water again.
On the other hand, my mom is always home after school and she always has something good to eat. She used to be a vice-principal of a high school before she had Tori and me, but she went on what she called “permanent maternity leave.” That would be because of my dad. My dad is a very busy guy. He’s a cardiac surgeon. He basically works at least eleven hours a day, then gets phone calls, text messages, or pages regularly throughout the remaining hours of the day. I know it drives my mother crazy. I’m used to it.
People always look so surprised when I tell them he’s a surgeon—they open their eyes really big and say “Oh!” in a way that makes me think that they think it’s pretty impressive or something. But I’m not that impressed. He’s kind of a dork. He sings in an opera voice a lot. How can you take somebody seriously who does that? I sure hope he never does that in front of his patients. Normal people would never let him near their heart if they heard or saw him sing. Anyway, because my dad is almost never home, my mom always is.
While the leftovers were still heating up in the microwave, Tori came stomping into the kitchen wearing her earbuds and almost crashed into Jason.
“UGH! Why are you always here, Jason!?” Tori spat. “Why don’t you and Krista get married already and start your lives together?” She grabbed a drink from the fridge.
There it was. The same old joke Jason and I had been hearing for years. We’ve been best friends since preschool. On the first day, I was sitting in a circle waiting for class to start—I don’t remember this, but our parents tell us it happened this way—and Jason sat down next to me. He wouldn’t sit anywhere else for the next two years. It had to be next to me. If I was sick or absent, Jason would refuse to go to school or stay there without me.
We’ve been tight like that ever since that first day. But we’re older now, so if one of us is sick and going to be away from school, the other person will still go to school because we do know a lot of other people, but our first choice is to always hang out with each other.
To us, it doesn’t matter that he is a boy with reddish-brown hair, glasses, and green eyes, and that I am the Korean girl at school who everybody assumed was Ch
inese—except Jason. He knew. We are friends. We have always been friends and we always will. We both knew it from the first day of preschool. Other people don’t get it. We like to hang out with each other. We like each other’s company. We make each other laugh. When we look at each other, I don’t think we see anything weird or unusual about the fact that we are friends. Does it matter that my best friend isn’t a girl? It does to certain people.
Jason always handled my sister with good humor. “Tori, I’m just sick of ham sandwiches. Korean food is such a treat!”
“Hmph!” Tori swiveled around on her heels theatrically and went around opening every window of the house. Then she stomped around spraying air freshener. I tried to ignore her, but she can be so dramatic sometimes.
Just then the microwave beeped. We forgot about Tori and sat down to enjoy our steaming plate of beefy goodness.
CHAPTER 2
After eating, Jason and I sat on the sofa to continue our card game. We had been playing the same game of war for three days, off and on, and nobody could seem to win. But then we heard a car pulling up in front of the house and Jason saw who it was—my grandmother. I could tell by the look in his eyes that we would not be continuing our game today. It wasn’t that Jason didn’t like Grandma, it was the other way around. Grandma often could be what you might call aloof, but to Jason, she was downright cold. I don’t know why she was so mean to him. Asking her about it was out of the question.
Tori got along with my grandmother. They kind of had the same attitude about things. My grandmother always dressed very nicely. And her hair was always in a state of permanent curled perfection. It’s like her hair didn’t move. Even if she walked into the shower, I don’t think it would get wet. Water would just hit the top of her head and slide right off. She always reapplied her lipstick after dinner and made sure her handbag matched her shoes. Have you ever seen old Korean ladies “out for a hike” in a forest on the North Shore wearing giant visors that covered their whole faces and completely inappropriate shoes? Like they might even be wearing heels? Well, that was my grandmother.
My mom saw that Jason was reaching for his backpack and said, “Why are you going home already?”
Then came the knock on the door and my mom looked out and saw the car. She gave him a knowing look and said, “Oh, okay.”
When Grandma came over, she always brought her special soup. It was tteokguk, a beef broth with sliced rice cake rounds that get a bit soft in the soup It was Jason’s food kryptonite. He just couldn’t handle it. We eat it almost every time Grandma comes over, and it’s pretty tasty to me, but it is the one dish that makes Jason gag. The first and only time he tried it, he didn’t chew the rice cake properly, and it slid down his throat and then got stuck. He turned a deep shade of purple and almost died. My mom freaked out and slapped him on the back and yelled “Spit it out! Spit it out!” He ended up finally swallowing the rice cake, but he never could, or would, try it again.
He would not be staying for dinner today. Plus, he had very quietly whispered to me once that he thought my grandmother was kind of scary. I can’t blame him. She kind of is. Especially when she’s gesturing and talking in Korean to Jason, even though she knows he doesn’t understand. I can see how it makes Jason uncomfortable. The worst part is, she could actually speak English to Jason—if she wanted to, but she doesn’t.
Jason tied up his shoes just as Grandma entered the house. She just stared at him, and he said, “Hello, Mrs. Kim.” She gave him the slightest of head nods, like I mean barely a muscle moved in her neck.
“Bye Krista, bye Mrs. Kim.” He waved at my mom. “Thank you for the leftover bulgogi. It was delicious!”
Grandma raised her eyebrows when Jason said bulgogi. After the door closed, she said to my mom, “Why that boy always here?”
My mom said, “He’s Krista’s best friend.”
“Krista!” Grandma turned and barked at me. “Soup in car.” Did I mention that my grandmother doesn’t like me either? I sighed, but I tried not to sigh loud enough for her to hear, and said, “Okay, Grandma, I’ll go get it.”
She prepared the pot of soup at home and then transferred it to our house in a cardboard banana box that she got from the grocery store. That way, the pot was secure in the trunk and couldn’t slide around. The banana box usually had other Korean food in it too. Grandma loved to feed my dad. Since my dad was a surgeon, she pretty much thought he was the perfect son. Grandpa died a few years ago, so she was on her own. She came over at least once a week now, and she always brought food to our house just so she could watch Dad eat it. A little bit creepy, I thought.
When I entered the house, I could hear Grandma saying, “Alice, she never get married if she dress like that! Tomboy! Krista, she must stop playing with boys and acting like boy. Disgraceful. Look at her shoes. So terrible!” She was talking about my running shoes. They were getting a little shabby, but I didn’t think they were totally ready for the garbage yet. Her comment pretty much summed up what my grandmother thought about me—awkward tomboy who was never going to get a good husband. Grandma thinks every girl’s goal in life should be to marry a doctor, or to have a son who becomes a doctor.
I slammed the door closed so they could hear me and stop talking about me. I looked at what I was wearing. Jeans, a little roughed-up around the knees, but no actual holes yet, white ankle socks, and a black t-shirt. I know I don’t dress “fancy” like some girls, but I like to be comfortable. My grandmother just doesn’t like the fact that I don’t care about how I look the way she does.
Tori came downstairs just then. Grandma smiled. “Tori, aigoo so beautiful!” She gushed about Tori’s looks all the time. Tori was the grandchild she adored. We all know she is the pretty one, and I am the “other one.” Tori dressed very fashionably and always seemed to look put together. She took time in the morning to get dressed and even wore a little makeup now that she was in high school.
My mom leaned over to me and whispered, “You’re beautiful too, Krista. Don’t forget that.”
Whatever, Mom. I rolled my eyes. My mom always tried to make me feel equal to Tori, but I wasn’t blind. My grades weren’t even as good as Tori’s.
Grandma started getting dinner ready for us. We have a don’t-wait-for-Dad policy in our house. If he’s not home by 6pm, too bad, we’re eating. Today, we ate without him.
When he finally came home, he dropped his cell phone, pager, and car keys on the hall table and said, “How was your day, kiddo?” He gave everybody their usual kiss and for me, a hair rumple. He wouldn’t dare touch Tori’s hair anymore.
“Good. Why are you so late?” I asked him.
“Sorry, emergency at the hospital,” he replied.
He was still wearing his hospital scrubs, which was usually okay, but sometimes he came home with dried blood on him without even realizing it—like today.
“Did anybody die?” I asked, pointing to the blood on his top. I always wanted to know if somebody died.
“Gross, Krista. Why do you care so much about people having heart attacks and dying?” Tori said as she sat on the sofa reading a fashion magazine.
“I just want to know!”
“Krista, nobody died today.” My dad grinned. “Does that disappoint you?”
“Well, a little bit,” I answered truthfully.
“Girls, let your dad eat,” my mom interjected. “Grandma has been waiting for him for hours.”
My grandmother busied herself warming up the soup for my dad and uncovered all the little plates of banchan she had kept under plastic wrap while we waited for him. She seemed really happy. Like, truly happy serving my dad dinner. My mom never looked that happy serving us dinner. She usually seemed agitated and busy trying to get it all ready, but Grandma floated around the kitchen. She was even wearing pearls today. She likes to look good even while standing over a hot stove. I just do not understand that woman sometimes.
CHAPTER 3
This year, my teacher’s name is Mrs. June. She has some crazy long last name, so she told us we could just call her Mrs. June to make it easy for everybody. So far, class was okay. Jason and I worry at the end of every year that they will put us in different classes. My mom and Jason’s mom always have meetings with the principal to make sure they don’t split us up. I heard them talking about it once. They think it’s important for us to stay in the same class. It’s a pretty big school and there is always more than one class for each grade. So this year, when we got our class assignments, we let out our usual sighs of relief. We don’t have to sit together all the time, we’re not that dependent on each other, but we just couldn’t imagine what to do with ourselves if we weren’t in the same class.
Mrs. June likes to start each morning by having us do yoga. She says it’s calming and helps us focus. I try to take it seriously, but it’s hard. I don’t like sticking my butt in the air and looking between my legs at my classmates. I try to keep my eyes closed so I don’t giggle. But most of the time, somebody loses it.
“That’s enough, Marcus!” Mrs. June warned. Marcus was the worst. He didn’t take anything seriously. He always set off other kids in the class. I tried to never be around Marcus during yoga time. “Breathe in and out. Slowly, take a full, deep, cleansing breath.” Mrs. June really believed in this stuff. I kind of liked the feeling of the blood rushing into my head and how I felt when I finally stood upright again. It did clear my mind. I wouldn’t have admitted that though, because we were all supposed to be of the opinion that this morning yoga was stupid.
After some more stretching, Mrs. June asked us to settle into our desks and said, “Because next month is Heritage Month, we will be starting a new unit on family today. We’re going to be spending a lot of time on this unit over the next few weeks, so I hope that you are ready to talk to your family and learn about the country or countries or part of the world where you and your family are from. We are going to the library to start some preliminary research. I’m not asking you to do a family tree, I’m just asking that you explore your background in some way. Canada is mostly made up of immigrants, after all. My parents came from Hungary, and that’s where I was born. I want you to learn about where you come from.” She started passing out sheets of paper with information about our projects.